


wanna fall through the stars

by redlight



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cunnilingus, Desert aesthetic, Dom/sub, F/M, Face-Sitting, Fluff and Smut, Galaxy Garrison, Human Allura, Implied Shance, Introspection, Multi, Other, Pining Lance (Voltron), Road Trips, Sappy, fluffy sex, genderqueer allura, implied shallura, lance has a KINK OKAY, lance is a mess, the sappiesst porn ever, they/them pronouns for allura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-14 00:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16029170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/pseuds/redlight
Summary: Well, they're cute. Very cute. They're warm and wrapped up in Lance's jacket, looking down at the textbook they doodle over sometimes, mindlessly—they can do it because their father paid for it, 'cause Alfor Al-Talah is arespected, respectableman, engineer and pilot instructor for the Galaxy Garrison, and Allura doesn't need to rent their books, so—So they doodle. Absentmindedly, with lip-gloss on their pretty mouth, scribbles and stars and equations and questions. Wavelength, wind speed, velocity. Star physics and star-istic sort of dreams, magnetic, aesthetic, all that—All that sort of stuff.The desert sunshine, though—it shines warm in their hair as they rest their head against the window. Their eyelashes flutter with sleep and stress, and Lance—God, Lance islovestruck.working title: "lance has a crush as massive as the milky way and also he eats allura out"





	wanna fall through the stars

**Author's Note:**

> lol i wrote this in may and im still a total slut for allurance even tho im falling out of vld fandom so hi what up its been a while but your local monsterfucker redlight is back with some porn

Allura's—cute.

 _Cute_ , with their hair curling irresistibly and irreparably, twisted cute 'round their manicured fingernails, dark strands of hair sticking to their pretty, lip-gloss heavy lips, dark split-end strands tumbling down the jacket they're wearing—

(It's Lance's jacket, Lance's jacket that he stole from his big sister, Veronica, when he was a little kid, but— _god_ , it looks good on Allura. Well, everything looks good on Allura, but—)

Well, they're cute. Very cute. They're warm and wrapped up in Lance's jacket, looking down at the textbook they doodle over sometimes, mindlessly—they can do it because their father paid for it, 'cause Alfor Al-Talah is a _respected, respectable_ man, engineer and pilot instructor for the Galaxy Garrison, and Allura doesn't need to rent their books, so—

So they doodle. Absentmindedly, with lip-gloss on their pretty mouth, scribbles and stars and equations and questions. Wavelength, wind speed, velocity. Star physics and star-istic sort of dreams, magnetic, aesthetic, all that—

All that sort of stuff.

The desert sunshine, though—it shines warm in their hair as they rest their head against the window. Their eyelashes flutter with sleep and stress, and Lance—

God, Lance is _lovestruck_.

A mess. He's a mess, mess, _mess_.

Lance is a mess.

He's got mess engraved in every bone in his over-skinny, too-finicky, too-fidgety body. He's got natural disaster in the color of his eyes and he's got desperation written in every brain fiber, because Lance—

—is a goddamn trainwreck.

So he can admit he wants Allura, he can!

He can admit that Allura's pretty, he can admit that they're beautiful, he can—

He probably shouldn't be fawning so desperately, so _messily_ , but—

God, they're so cute.

And right now, they look so—fragile? And Allura tries _not_ to be fragile, tries to keep their eyes hard and cold like _ice-ice-ice-crystals_ , tries to keep their mouth pursed and unimpressed, even though they're falling asleep over their doodle-ridden textbook.

They wanna be _prim, proper_ , but—

Right now, with their hair disarranged and eyes tired and heavy with circles, a few individual dark eyelashes sticking to their cheek—

Lance can't help but chuckle under his breath, as he carefully plucks an eyelash off their cheek. Allura startles awake—more awake than they were, at least.

Sunset sunlight glimmers against their lipgloss—sparkly! Really pretty. Maybe Lance can ask to borrow some for later, but—

Not now. They—they really _do_ look really tired right now.

“Hey, Allura, are you doing alright?”

Allura yelps as Lance drags some strands of hair out of their face.

"I—" Allura starts. Pretty flush rises in their dark skin, and they smile _all nervous, all polite—_ "I'm sorry, was I falling asleep—?"

"It's—that's okay!" Lance says, his own mouth working a little uselessly, because—maybe-maybe-maybe he's distracted, okay? Maybe he's distracted. Maybe he's gonna _break_ , but—

Well.

"You seem kinda stressed, lately, I—you wanna take a break?"

Allura blinks at him. "I thought this was the break," they say flatly.

He laughs nervously.

(He does this a lot—nervous laughter, awkward fidgeting, Lance is a fucking mess, okay?)

"Let's take a break," Lance says again, and the way Allura's face perks up is too cute to deny them of anything, anything, _anything at all_.

* * *

And they both gotta leave the diner, this kinda-shitty, kinda-messy diner where the leather seats stick too harsh-hard to Lance's thighs with his shorts, where Allura's hair is sticking to their neck with desert-summer-sunshine-heat, pretty, dreary, and real- _real_ desolate.

They just—they look so _sad_.

Maybe it's wrong for Lance to think about it like _this_ , like _that_ , but—he wants to give them a break. A summer day kinda vacation— _let's not study for once, let's not stress for once_ —

But there's no beaches in Roswell, New Mexico—just the Galaxy Garrison and shitty alien stories that are _repeat-retold_ and reshaped to fit anyone's perceptions, gullibilities, fantasies—

(Yeah, Lance has seen Pidge's weird alien fanfiction.

Not that he's—not that he's judging.)

But Allura's got their hair in a mess—they're usually immaculate and Allura tries so _hard_ to be all that.

But here's the thing, the real whole honest _truth-truth-truth_ , because if Lance is honest, then he knows he likes to pretend, likes to act and fabricate and liven things up, so, to be real honest—

Allura? Makes Lance feel like he's got hearts in his eyes, spiders in his throat, _sick-sick-sick_ flitter-flutter of vampire bats in his blood because he's desperate-thirsty for pretty skin, for strands of hair stuck on sticky-glossy-lips against his own mouth, too, for love—

 _Love me, please_.

Wow, Lance is so fuckin' desperate.

Is it too much to ask, if he wants their hands in his?

Is it _too much_ , if he wants skin and spiders and stickiness?

Desert sand's got enough spiders, probably—Allura doesn't like those, and Lance should probably stop freaking them out, but—

But Allura takes him up on that offer of a _break_ , anyway.

They're a little huffy and maybe Lance watches them too closely, how the skin of their thighs sticks to the faux leather of his shitty rented-out car, but Lance wants to take them _somewhere_ , and the desert isn't the beach, no, it's a different kind of sunny—the kinda sunny that makes his skin blister, his heart overheat, nothing like _home_ —

But Allura—their hair's pulled back with a hairband, messy and frizzy, and their nose is wrinkled cutely when they eye the radio.

"So," Lance says, thrumming his fingers against the steering. "I don't think you're the type to fight over music, are you?"

"I—I listen to podcasts, sometimes?" they say, twirling a manicured finger in their hair, and—

Yes, okay, podcasts it is, no matter how niche—

(They like space and sci-fi narratives. A little horror here and there. Stuff like that.)

* * *

They're playing with the seatbelt.

"Sometimes," Allura says, eyes _tired_ , still so _tired._ "Sometimes I think I'm just gonna strangle Keith Kogane and his stupid face."

Lance almost _chokes_. "Sorry?"

"He beat my test scores. Well, you beat my test scores too, but only in Mechanics, but when it's _Keith_ , then..." They frown—maybe they're so exhausted, and that's why they're talking so candidly, it's kinda _funny_ , but they've gotta be careful so Lance doesn't just _drive off the road in surprise_. "Then I just want to challenge him to a fistfight."

"Wow," Lance says. "Okay, first of all, mood. Second of all, you could probably beat him."

"Heh," Allura twirls their fingers in their hair again, does that cute little half-giggle. Summer sun shining on their skin, sweat droplets making their hair stick to their neck— _don't drive off the road, Lance, Jesus Christ—_ "Maybe I could?"

"You _definitely_ could." Allura's pulling their legs up, shifting uncomfortably with the seatbelt, tucking their knees under their skin— _drive, Lance, just drive, okay, eyes on the road—_

"So." Allura tosses their head back, eyeing the rearview mirror in nonchalance. "Where are you taking me?"

"I was hoping we'd find somewhere nice along the way," Lance admits.

"Like what?"

"I dunno. An oasis. A golf course wasting water in the middle of a desert." Lance leaves one hand on the steering, runs his fingers through his own hair. “I dunno.”

“Maybe you’re kidnapping me.”

“I—no, I’m not!”

* * *

Okay, Lance can't believe Allura, of all people, Allura—convinced him into this.

"Really?" he asks wryly, as Allura winds his jacket 'round their shoulders again. They'd had it tied 'round their waist for the duration of the drive, due to how the seat material was practically _melting_ to stick to both of them, and the sun was beaming through the atmosphere as harshly as usual, so, but now—

Now his jacket—his worn, almost flimsy jacket, Veronica gave it to him when he was way younger but it'd always been oversized for him, and now it's—

Massive on Allura. Real cute. They zip it up but it still slips down their shoulder, and then they flip-flop their hair out over the collar in the most endearing motion?

It—it kinda makes Lance wanna die.

Is he being over-dramatic? He's being too over-dramatic.

But—Allura's smiling at him. _Grinning_ , like a wonderland feline, if he lets the caution creep up in his veins enough, lets some discretion dilute his senses. The lip gloss has faded from their lips, and now their mouth looks dry and chapped and maybe Lance wants to feel that texture still—

And then they giggle, fall back into the shitty motel bed. God, the sheets are this awful, degenerating flower pattern, like curling 60s wallpaper or something—pink and blue mis-iterations of flowers on yellowing fabric.

But Allura's grinning and their hair fans out all pretty against the sheets.

They look happy. They look disheveled, in the best, best possible way—it makes the space between Lance's lungs hurt and inflate, makes his ribcage throb 'cause something's _happening_ to his heart.

It _kinda_ makes Lance wanna die.

Not to be over-dramatic, or anything.

Death with Allura, though, can't be that bad, can it?

It's a dumb thought, 'cause Lance is 19 still and only in his second year of flight school, still unsure about trying to fight for another place as _fighter pilot_ , where supernova superstars like Takashi Shirogane, Keith Kogane, and—of course, _Allura Al-Talah_ belong.

Well, maybe Lance is more of a deadweight than a shining star, but Allura is too stunning against desert sunlight and shitty flower sheets, so—

Lance forces a grin on his face as he sits smack down beside Allura.

They look up, contemplating, their hair's a _mess_ from being out all day and Lance is _glad_ that they don't care about it right now, because usually they’re too focused on their appearance, usually they’re self-conscious and “ _is this—is this too girly I don’t want people thinking it is but I like the color—”_ and nervous glances at the mirror even though they’re _perfect, perfect_ , in whatever they wanna wear, so—

So Lance, well, _well—_

He finds himself on top of them. Hands on either side of their head, fingers spread apart carefully to keep from tangling in their hair, his knees on either side of their waist, and Allura _squeaks_.

"Hi!" they say, pushing their hair out of their face with a giggle and Lance wants to _die_.

No, he's really not being over-dramatic anymore.

"Hi," he rasps out. "Can I do anything for you?"

 _Can I do_ everything _for you, sweetheart?_

Please say yes, please say _yes_ , Allura—‘cause they can ask Lance for anything, _anything_ , his heart, his soul, his body—

His hands on them, his tongue, his shake-shaking pulse and the thread-beat-line of his heart, Allura can have _all_ of it, they only need to ask—

And Lance will give.

"Do anything for me?" Allura asks. Then their mouth goes teasing, pretty. Eyelashes flutter, face flushing, it’s all so cute, makes Lance’s fingers twitch. "Like what?"

(What _wouldn’t_ he do?)

"I wanna eat you out."

Of course Lance does, like he hasn't been thirsting for that for hours now, he just—maybe he should have _some_ shame but Allura's skin is flushed and their knees are opening up for him to fit between so, so, _so—_

So what can he do?

"Oh," says Allura. "Well."

Lance chuckles nervously, a shipwreck-stutter rising up in his voice. "Is—is that okay?"

"That—that is okay, yes."

"Okay, good," says Lance. _Thank god_.

It takes a minute of staring—brine blue and star blue, ocean and spacetime—before they give Lance a crooked grin. "Well? Get on with it."

Mischief—looks so fucking good on them, to be _honest_. Works so well with the messy hair, with the bright eyes, with the stutter in Lance’s chest—

" _Yessir_ ," Lance says automatically, and—fuck, his cheeks heat up when Allura raises an eyebrow.

"Has Shiro influenced you?"

"I—" Lance huffs. "We're not talkin' bout Shiro right now."

(Yeah, no, not the time to open _that_ can of worms, where Shiro’s got the arm strength to hold Lance up against the wall for a literal _hour_ , smug smirk on his face as he makes Lance shiver enough to hit his own head back against the wall, _yes sir please d-d-daddy more—_ )

Allura hums. "But it _was_ Shiro? He’s really quite good, you know." Fuck, yes, Lance knows, and apparently _Allura_ knows too—“He’s good with his mouth.”

"Y'know what?" Lance starts to move, get away from his position on top of them, and Allura almost _whines_. Fuck. They shouldn’t have to ask him for _anything_ , and that little sound just tugs at his heart, sends a shudder through each blood vessel.

Allura pouts, tries to backtrack, " _No, wait, I_ —"

It’s—still cute as hell, though.

Lance gives them a shit-eating grin. He gets a swat on the arm for it. "Don't worry, gorgeous, I'm just gonna lie down."

Allura blinks, long lashes narrowed. "Why?”

 _"_ I kinda want you to sit on my face. I’ve got a better mouth than Shiro, I bet you—Oh, c'mon, hey, _hey_ , don't give me that look, c’mon, you'll like it, seriously!"

* * *

So.

So Lance ends up flat on his back, Allura's pretty brown thighs shaking and quiver-trembling 'round his head—

( _And is this heaven? ‘Cause it might be, to be real honest_. )

'Cause their fingers are digging harsh-hard into his chest, scraping and desperate and he can't _really_ see them like this, it's the downside to his own dumb, ridiculous stairway to paradise—he can't _see them_ , can't see the unruly unravel of their hair tumbling down their back, can't see the pretty flush to their pockmarked shoulders, can't see the heave and tremble of their chest—

But he can taste them. He can lick them out 'til they _scream_. And—god, thank god, he can _hear them_.

Soft heaving breaths. Long-nailed fingers digging into his chest and pretty, _pretty_ moans, and—their voice is raspy, breathy, whiny, and—

Maybe he’s too rough. They deserve sweetness, they deserve _better_ , but Lance keeps his thumbs digging into their hips and setting bruises into their skin—

Maybe he’s too possessive, because he’s marked the inside of their thighs up with bites, red-warm and harsh so they _know_ who left them there, but—

But Allura keeps grinding back against his mouth, and he can _feel_ the shake-quiver-tremor of their thighs, and they’re whispering hot-harsh under their breath—

“Lance, _Lance_ , please, I—” and Lance can’t help but laugh into them, grab their hips and force them down further—

And then he lifts them up, a few inches from his face. Their cunt is all pretty, shiny with his saliva and their slick, and they _squeal_ as he licks another stripe across their hole.

“Hey—” Fuck, fuck, is that his voice? It’s too dark and raspy, but—“Move down a little for me, okay, gorgeous?”

“H-huh?” They toss another glance behind them—and their eyes are a little shiny, they’re _panting_ , they’re—

They’re so fucking pretty.

And Lance is—Lance is kind of a horrible, selfish person, to be _real, real honest,_ so—

He wants them to whine for him more, beg for him more.

And he’ll _get_ what he wants.

So he lets Allura scramble down his chest, a little weak and a lot shaky. He hasn’t—he hasn’t taken off his shirt, so, fuck, maybe they drip some slick onto him but that’s _so fucking fine_ , his mouth is covered in it and his fingers are so soaked they’re wrinkling—

Lance is _kinda_ gross, but he likes the way Allura squeezes and clenches around his fingertips.

It’s—it’s an experience.

“D-do you—La-Lance, do you want me to do anything for you now—?”

 _Fuck_.

“Just—” His chest hurts with love, his jaw aches, and he wants Allura to have _absolutely everything_.

Heart stutter, heart static, _just do whatever you want, sweetheart, I’ll take it and make it better for you no matter what it is—_

Lance wants what they want. Allura doesn't have to do _anything_ but shake apart and whine into their hands, palms smothered by the sleeves of Lance’s jacket—

His heart bursts. His ribs _ache_.

They must be so warm, so hot, but they're keeping the stuffy thing on like it comforts them, and just—

Allura yelps. They almost fall onto the bed when Lance sits up, his own spine vibrant with heartache and creaking with desperation, and he places them square on his lap while they shiver.

Lance—sort of belatedly realizes that he's still entirely clothed. Baseball shirt and short-shorts and Allura’s striped-blue-pink-white knee-socks, they’d told him it'd look good on him—

But Allura, they look _so, so_ good. Their cunt is bare, they took their _shirt off_ , _their bra off_ , shrugged Lance’s jacket back on top—

Fuck. Oh, _fuck_ , that's the only thing Allura’s wearing. He didn't even—

He didn't _realize_.

“Fuck,” and is that his voice? That rasping, craving voice? Oh, god, okay. Their hair is getting in Lance’s face, wild and frazzled with sweat, with heat, and he can watch the way their back heaves, the way he can't see their waist through the form of his jacket.

Lance is _so_ far over his head. He's drowning in spacetime, choking on stardust, faced with the reality that _gravity isn't real_.

“Lance?” Their voice sounds so—small. Rasping, craving, drowning. “L-Lance, I can—”

Lance is going to die here. His heart’s gonna fall out between the sheets and he's gonna fumble to catch it, but it's already _too late, too late_ , Lance is caught in the current, trapped by the event horizon, _there’s no going back_ —

He swallows. Tastes them on his lips. Swallows again. “I’m here, I’m _here_ , Allura, I’m—”

For them, he’d be anywhere. Dead or alive, burning or frozen, _no coming back from this, Espinosa._

And—that’s alright. He doesn’t wanna come back.

He’ll drown in this instead.

“I’m always here for you, ‘Llura, you hear me?”

And they nod, they do, eyes as worldwide as the planet itself, and Allura’s nails are digging so desperate into his shoulders, their mouth quivering, the stupid dusty bedsheets (they deserve better) and the desert sun fluttering in through the blinds and moth-bitten curtains, showering their skin in gold—

Allura asks, like Lance thinks, like Lance craves, “ _Love me, please?_ ”

—so Lance does.


End file.
